“It’s huge.”
“Not really.”
“It’s bigger than my bicycle.”
“Low standard.”
The Mother laughed.
The Little Girl looked toward the rear seat.
“Does somebody sit there?”
“Sometimes.”
“Who?”
“Nobody lately.”
The answer came out before he could soften it.
The girl understood anyway.
She touched the little passenger backrest.
“Your wife?”
“Used to.”
The child became quiet.
Then:
“She liked riding?”
The biker smiled.
“She complained the whole time.”
“Maybe she liked complaining.”
He laughed.
“That she did.”
The Little Girl looked toward him.
“Do you still miss her?”
“Yes.”
“Every day?”
“Not every minute.”
“But every day.”
The girl nodded.
“My grandma died.”
“I miss her at breakfast because she made pancakes.”
The biker said:
“See?”
“People hide in routines.”
The child liked that.
The Mother did too.
They reached the car.
The Little Girl climbed into the passenger seat.
Then immediately jumped back out.
Her Mother stared.
“What now?”
The girl ran toward the biker.
He crouched instinctively.
She hugged him.
No warning.
Small arms around thick leather.
The biker froze.
His hands remained away from her at first.
Then he looked toward the Mother.
She nodded.
He placed one hand gently between the girl’s shoulder blades.
The child whispered:
“Thank you for stopping.”
The biker closed his eyes.
Nine years disappeared.
Rain.
Metal.
Blood.
A woman saying my baby.
He whispered:
“Glad I did.”
The girl pulled away.
“Now you know we lived.”
The biker nodded.
“Yes.”
Her smile widened.
“So stop being sad about it.”
He laughed through tears.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She returned to the car.
The Mother remained.
She held out her hand.
The biker took it.
She did not release immediately.
“You gave me nine years.”
He shook his head.
“We're not doing that.”
She smiled.
“Fine.”
“You gave me the chance to have nine years.”
He tried objecting.
She continued:
“And probably many more.”
The biker became quiet.
The Mother squeezed his hand.
“I don't owe you.”
“I know.”
“But I’m grateful.”
He nodded.
This time he accepted it.
“Okay.”
She smiled.
“Okay.”